


I don’t know what I love you means ( it means don’t leave me here alone )

by Niahara_Erskine



Series: Tales from the Primordial Soup [7]
Category: Abrahamic Religions, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Character Death, End of the World, Final Battle, Gen, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Sad Ending, Standalone, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8586466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niahara_Erskine/pseuds/Niahara_Erskine
Summary: There is one so many times the Apocalypse can be adverted before the time of Recogning catches up with them. When the End of All Days comes a-knocking and the summons to join their respective Sides in the Battle to end all Battles arrive, they don’t need much time to decide where they stand. It’s where they have always stood, ever since a Garden and an Apple, ever since both had been stranded on Earth, away from their respective sides. They stand together, at each other’s side. There’s nothing they can do to change it so they decide to outrun the whole thing as long as they can.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sous_le_saule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/gifts).



> This is a standalone work, not meant to be a canon part of the Tales of the Primordial Soup series, even though it hints at some of the events in TotPS, but rather an alternate universe end of the world, Apocalypse finally comes and there's no adverting it story, spinning off from the main series. Hopefully, the actual canon ending of the series will be happier? ( I make no promises though )

It is perhaps fitting that it should End where it all started for them. Not in the Garden, no; Eden has long been barred to all but the Almighty Himself.

But close, just past the gates, where Eve strode out of the gardens bold and unashamed, the world stretching beneath her feet. Where Adam followed in her wake, brave and undeterred, grasping tight the hilt of a blade once belonging to one of the cherubim.

In a forest, one of the few that remain untouched and untainted on Earth, a place still suffused with Grace, albeit a tiny amount of it, where they hope to steal a few moments before their borrowed time runs out. A place that until now has been ignored by both the Host and the Legion, the lingering touch of their Father’s Presence deterring both Sides of the War.

But no longer; Time is coming to an End and the Final War is drawing to a Close, with the two of them caught in the middle, again, as it has already happened twice over.

\---

There is one so many times the Apocalypse can be adverted before the time of Recogning catches up with them. When the End of All Days comes a-knocking and the summons to join their respective Sides in the Battle to end all Battles arrive, they don’t need much time to decide where they stand. It’s where they have always stood, ever since a Garden and an Apple, ever since both had been stranded on Earth, away from their respective sides. They stand together, at each other’s side.

They know there’s no changing things now; there’s no amiable Antichrist to stop the Apocalypse because he likes Earth, not a snowball’s chance in Hell to talk to their respective Side and stop the whole nonsense. It’s the End, plain and simple, the War both Sides have been waiting for millenniums now.

There’s nothing they can do to change it so they decide to outrun the whole thing as long as they can.

\---

Britain is the first to fall, scorched under the flames of the Legion, punishment for its audacity of cancelling the Apocalypse several centuries before. There is nothing left of it as they walk through the ashes of buildings and humans alike; not the angel’s bookshop, not the Ritz, not even the lake at St. James’ Park where they used to feed the ducks. All that’s left is charred wasteland, sooth stretching for miles without end, craters scarring the earth here and there where a particularly vicious clash between opponents had occurred.

It is perhaps folly to be back to this place, to stand out like beacons in the open, but the others had long abandoned the place, satisfied with the total destruction they had left behind. And both of them needed the closure if nothing else.

_( Crowley had never hoped for more. Aziraphale had and the demon did not have the heart to dissuade him of the notion.)_

“I suppose it was too much to hope,” the angel says in a pained voice, eyes blurring with tears behind the glasses he still will not give up on.

_( His clothing is no longer tweed and old-fashioned, but rather the armor of the Host, just like Crowley had forgone his bespoke suits for his own coat of arms. The glasses remain, for both of them, a lingering note of familiarity in a world slowly losing all that made it worth it. )_

“They never forgave Adam’s little tantrum back then. Antichrist or no Antichrist, he had one job and refused to do it. Doesn’t matter he’s been dead and gone for centuries now, this land was still his in their eyes. And he made a mockery of them.”

Crowley doesn’t add that the Legion and the Host were probably looking for them as well, putting the country through fire in hopes of finding their two traitors. He doesn’t need to; Aziraphale knows it as well as him.

\---

France has more ghosts than many other countries; when the gates to Hell break open and the souls of the damned start rising topside, the country is occupied by an unrelenting swarm, not unlike the one that had crippled Egypt during God’s Plagues. The cathedrals are the first to be toppled, demons of human origin chipping away stone after stone after stone with bare claws until all that remains is dust and shattered glass.

The screams of the dead and dying, the waves upon waves of despair hit them as they fly above Avallon, almost knocking the angel out of the sky. By the time they reach the borders, below them France is a decaying country filled to the brim with the bodies of the dead. They do not linger; there is no point, not with Heaven and Hell closing on their tails.

\---

Ophaniel catches up with the duo above Hungary; the former guardian of the Northern Gate comes after them with fury, but it is not Crowley, rather Aziraphale that is the quarry of her sole minded pursuit. There is betrayal lingering in her gaze, hatred and rage bursting to the brim and the angel is put in the defensive as soon as her sword clashes against his. “Traitor,” she hissed with each lunge and hit, “traitor, traitor, traitor. Choosing the mud men and a hellish beast over the Host. Traitor!” _( she has not yet forgiven Crowley for slipping past her in the Gardens, nor will she ever have the chance to )_

Aziraphale does not wish to kill her, but Crowley has no qualms about it, not when her sword kicks his angel’s weapon from his hand, not when her blade set aflame comes dangerously close to Aziraphale’s throat. Her first mistake is ignoring him, believing erroneously so that Crowley would just stand and watch her skewer the angel, that there is no way a demon would actually care what happens to one from Above. Her second mistake is attacking Aziraphale in the first place.

His claws extend, rake against her side, stopping her hit before it can strike true, poison dripping in the wound. She staggers, eyes wide in shock, disbelief on celestial features and before she can retaliate, she falls, Hell crafted dagger plunged in her heart. “Stop being such a bloody sap, angel, it’ll get you killed! They have no problems trying to kill us.” The words are said harsher than necessary, unforgivingly so, but they reach their mark. The next time they are attacked it is the angel that tears Baphomet from the sky, renters the demon unmade with divine flames.

\---

It is not just the British that hold the belief their legendary kings will rise anew when the country is at its direst _( though it did little good as Arthur, valiant though he might have been, was no match for an enraged Asmodeus and an equally enraged Leviathan. Merlin too fell under Beelzebub’s sword and did not wake anew. )_

It is the Romanian people also that hold a similar belief regarding their long-lost rulers; therefore, it does not surprise Crowley that upon crossing the borders of a land once known as Wallachia, the two demons hot out on their tail are shot with arrows from the skies by a grim-faced Vlad[1], looking as well as he had in his prime.

_( Both had known him, back in the far past, when he had been known merely as a great ruler, his reign unembellished by the writings of an Irish author. Aziraphale had tutted in displeasure at his methods, but liked the man well enough, whereas Crowley had taken advantage of the situations to weasel several more completely undeserved commendations from Them Below. )_

The country is not the wasteland it should have been and the reason is the battle is fought by more than just humanity’s best. The dead walk among the living, for however brief a time. The angel and the demon settle on the old castle’s turrets[2], wings twitching with exhaustion and strength almost spent.

“The borders still hold, though not for long,“ a weary look steals over the former voivode’s features, resignation in face of a war he cannot win. Merely stall it, for however long he can. The look is replaced with a grin of satisfaction, vindictive pleasure burning in merciless gaze as blood curling screams and the crunch of bone echoes loud in the night. The bodies of the felled demons at the feet of a castle disappear under a swarm of darkness, indiscernible to the naked eye.

“For all they joked about supernatural occurrences in our country, they never did quite take the threat seriously. They never quite understood how old this land is and how far reaching the people’s belief can be.”

There had ever been more than just the prowess of arms that kept the Ottoman Empire at bay. The shadows that haunt the dreams of Romanian people had always stood up and taken a stance against those that threatened their lands, Heaven and Hell included.

“Rest, but not for long. They will come after you and we cannot hold them at bay. Go north, seek Stefan[3]; for now, his lands are less besieged. Don’t go south, there’s nothing left there. Trust in the crows and the wolves as you go, they will clear the path for you.” Without another word, the voivode disappears in the night, mist remaining in his wake. Below, no sign remains of the beings that felled two of Hell’s second-best warriors.

\---

Baba Yaga shelters them for a while in Russia; she and Crowley had always shared a complicated relationship as not quite friends, not quite enemies, but business associates nonetheless and she hates the usurpers who think to cross her lands. More than a few angels and demons meet their end in her forests, the wildlife coming to life at her biding. She has not the power to stave them off indefinitely, but she is crafty enough to stall and allow the two to gather their strength.

Aziraphale drinks her tea and the two speak of the many legends surrounding her that had been passed through the ages. Crowley is not quite sure whether he wants to approach her or steer clear of her, but he still eats her stew and makes plans where to go next. All of them are quickly losing their hope, yet none has the courage to mention it. As long as they lie, even to themselves, things might still change.

They leave after a month, when the deer bring news of a great army coming towards Baba Yaga’s hut. The old woman tells them not to go east for all is dead back there and leads them down a secret forest path, one that disappears from sight as she too vanished. Behind them, the cries of the animal kingdom ring for days without end, but they are not followed, not yet at least.

\---

They go as far as they can, until they can no longer fly anymore, until the hits they receive are one too many. Vlad’s warning rings true; the south is a desolated wasteland, the entire land of Egypt rendered to sand, Israel’s ground stained by the blood of the faithful and unfaithful alike. But, there is no other place for them anymore; the remnants of the north have been torn apart, the gods of the East overwhelmed by the forces of Above and Below as Baba Yaga had predicted. The west had fallen to destruction from the moment they had left it. There is only one road for them so they keep going south, muscle memory aiding them, leading to a place they had not been to in over six millenniums. The place where it had all started, at the edge of a Garden barred forever. They manage, but do not make it there unscathed.

Their wings are broken, useless heaps of feathers dangling at odd angles, every movement sending spikes of agony in their body. Blood gushes from a slash in Aziraphale’s side, staining the white tunic; the silver and gold armor lays discarded, its weight too much to handle by his battered body. Crowley lays by his side, breath rattling laboriously in his caved in chest. He has long ago miracled the armor away, the suit replacing it, a small indulgence at the End of the World.

“Seems like we reached the end of the road. Can’t really run anymore, can we? Unless you have a handy tire iron around to face what remains of the Host and the Legion?” They lost the previous one, somewhere above Scandinavia.

“Afraid not, my dear,” Aziraphale answers in a tired voice. There is not even the faintest glimmer of hope lingering, the off chance that somehow, against all odds things will work out in the end. It’s the End, capital letter meant, simple as that. It’s their end as well, though they raged against it with every fiber of their being. A dreadfully human thing to do, Aziraphale muses, but unfortunately they are not human and their nature has been a burden to them much longer than it had been a blessing. “I’m scared,” the angel admits in a small tone, the words echoing between them, the feeling gripping both their hearts, a burden shared though not lessened in weight.

“Angel,” Crowley sighs, head falling softly on the other’s shoulder. The stars shine above their heads, visible through the canopy of the trees, the only sight that remains unchanged. “It’ll all be over soon. One way or the other.”

“Remember that time back in Salem? With the priest and the little girl?” The change of subject surprises Crowley, attention going back to the events mentioned, before he cringes. The particular debacle had ended with the angel’s first edition of Shakespeare’s works going up in flames and the demon getting discorporated for the first time ever since their Arrangement had taken place.

“Yeah, I do. What of it?”

“You promised me a favor, then, remember? Because I was so mad and you were the reason my book became ash, but you couldn’t find one to replace it before I noticed.”

Truth be told, Crowley would have promised anything if it meant not being sent Below for a new body. The fact that it had not helped him overly much, does not do much to negate the fact that he had offered the promise in the first place. He hums, in agreement, wary golden eyes gazing at the other.

“I think it’s time to cash in that favor, my dear.” The way Aziraphale says the words, broken and apologetic at the same time, eyes so damn gentle it hurts to even look at them makes Crowley understand what he wants before the other even has the chance to ask it of him.

“No, angel, no. ‘Zira you can’t ask this of me.” He’s pleading and he knows he is, as demeaning for a demon as it might be, but he doesn’t care because he understands, fuck he understands, but he can’t say yes, he can’t agree.

“We can’t run any longer. We can’t hide. And I’d rather not be left to the others’ tender mercies if it’s all the same to you.”

“Maybe your side…?”

“My side would be just as bad and you know it. Please. You knew it would always come to this.” His eyes looked old, ancient really, old and so very tired. Crowley knows that his must look the same, but he had ever been the optimist between the two of them. He had hoped they would find a way out of things. Or if not, he had rather indulged the fantasy that one Side or another would find him and end him, before he’d be put in this position.

“Curse it, angel,” he croaks, fists curling helplessly at his side. “Manchester. 1657. That thing we don’t talk about. A favor, yeah? We agreed back then! Either I tease you mercilessly or you owe me one. Guess what, I’m using it.”

“Crowley…”

“No, don’t you Crowley me. Either we both say yes or we both say no and face the music. You’re not leaving me alone to deal with Hastur’s torturing tendencies or Michael’s smite-happy disposition. Together, angel, ok?”

“My dear,” his fingers curl around his demon’s, a kiss pressed to bleeding knuckles, tears leaking down dirt stained cheeks. “Together. Just one more sunrise, ok?”

They close their eyes and huddle together, fingers and limbs entwined, wings pressing against each other despite the sheer agony caused by their ruined state. They count the seconds, the minutes, to their chosen end, reminisce of times swallowed by fire and ash.

_Dinners at the Ritz. Crowley flirting outrageously with the waitress to get the best seats, but sharing that intimate, fond look with Aziraphale alone._

_Mornings at Saint James’ Park, the sun warm and comforting, as their fingers brush over breadcrumbs before throwing them to the ducks._

_Evenings at the bookshop, Crowley lounging in a sofa, sipping wine, the angel’s head pillowed in his lap, reading a book. Silk sheets against their bodies, tender touches in the dead of the night, words muttered on skin, fingers tracing scars left behind by the same hands. Names whispered gently in a tone reserved for each other alone._

_Wings bared beneath trusting touches. Hands ghosting over feathers, stroking them carefully, no sign of hesitation at leaving one’s self vulnerable in front of the other. Shivers and chocked off gasps as sensitive points are pressed just right._

_“I love you, my dear.”_

_“Silly angel, I’m not going anywhere.”_

The sunrise is beautiful; soft light spreading gently through the leaves, warmth ebbing in limbs long accustomed to the cold. It is not the bloodied sunrise of the End, not the ghastly view that met their eyes every day for however long it might have been. It’s beautiful and it’s gentle and it’s theirs, there at the end of their story.

“It’s time,” Aziraphale points softly, gaze apologetic as he breaks the little spell that had fallen over them.

“Yeah. They’ll find this place sooner or later. I’m surprised they didn’t discover it until now.”

“Do you think they won by now? Either of them?”

“Does it truly matter? Regardless of whoever won, we still lost.”

A brittle smile appears on the demon’s face as fingers close around the shades, tossing them aside carelessly. With gentler movements, he takes off the angel’s glasses as well – cracked and crooked as they are – and pulls them off. There’s a myriad of emotions swirling in the serpentine gaze – fear and sorrow and guilt and pain and everlasting love. “I’d rather see you if it’s all the same to you.”

A nod and a kiss, brief, sweet and chaste, so unlike the ones shared in the past, come as Aziraphale’s sole answer. There’s no need for words; there hasn’t been a need for them for centuries now.

Fingers close around a dagger burning white with divine fire. Fangs dripping poison extend, pressing against a bared throat. It happens in seconds; a dagger finding its mark, poison arresting a heart. They fall on the carpet of grass, one of the few blooming things in a world turned to ash, Aziraphale’s hand closed around the dagger buried in Crowley’s chest, the demon’s lips still lingering on the angel’s throat. And between them, even in death, fingers entwined…

\---

In a forest clearing, an angel and a demon lie together in death. At their side, blood spattered and battered, with dropping wings and body shaking in impotent fury, lingers an archangel, silver eyed and pale faced. A black feather stands burning at his feet, power thrumming as it consumes itself. A summoning of sorts, or a plea; Gabriel is not even sure he knows what exactly it is he wishes from it.

“Hell has won, hasn’t it?” the archangel asks before the figure can even fully appear. “I’ve felt them die. Uriel, Raph,” his voice chokes before the last name, tears of despair and anguish burning as they fall. “Michael.”

“It has.” There’s little inflection in Lucifer’s words, no attempt to sugar coat the truth or make its pain easier. Just a simple answer, the culmination of a battle long in the making.

“So much for your promise, brother. So much for it,” Gabriel turns, anger overwhelming all other emotions, hatred burning bright in his soul, for the first time since he remembered the truth, aimed at his brother.

“I made their passing painless and swift. I could do more than that, Gabriel. I am not allowed, not in this.” He could not have interfered, as God could not have interfered. The Apocalypse was to be played between the Host and the Legion. The win was to be theirs alone. The Powers that Be had little saying in choosing the victors.

“So what now, Luce? I’m the last one! So, what now? Will you make my passing swift also when Asmodeus gets his claws on me? When Leviathan takes her sweet time playing with her food as she always does?” Despair flares on fair features, hopelessness and defeat coating each word as his tone grows in intensity. “There’s nothing left for me. The world I fought for, I bled for, I guarded for centuries is gone. Both our sides have done this. Both Ended it!” He falls to his knees, a loud keening noise, echoing in the stillness of the forest. “I can’t… my brothers are gone. Father no longer answers. There’s nothing left for me. Either kill me, Lucifer, or be on your merry way and let the others do it. I can’t fight anymore. I just… I can’t.”

 A sword clatters to the ground, falling from a white knuckled grip. A trumpet follows it, the sign of God’s messenger, tossed aside with fury. The armor of the Host gives way to elegant robes, pristine white as they had been at the height of Heaven’s glory. “They chose their end,” a bitter laugh echoes in the stillness, a hand pointed almost accusingly at the two beings entwined on the ground, serene in death. “They were lesser than us, but they still went and chose their end so I can very well choose mine. Father forgive me, but I can’t do this, not anymore.”

“Gabriel,” Lucifer approaches softly, as if getting close to a skittish, wounded animal, a mix of pity and regret flaring on the Devil’s features. Guilt also lies there, but buried deep, unwilling to be seen. “Brother…” There is nothing he can say, nothing he can plead. Gabriel is right; the choice is his to make and Lucifer has no right to deny it.

“Please, Luce, please, I’d rather die looking at someone who loves me instead of being killed by one who abhors my very existence,” grief laden silver eyes catch the gaze of ruby ones, the pain and loneliness in them almost overbearing. “Please,” a last plea, strength gone as tears roll down the archangel’s cheeks and sobs catch in his throat. Gentle arms close around the archangel, a kiss pressed softly to his forehead and Gabriel’s body tilts forth, stillness creeping over it, an empty vessel bereft of a soul.

“I’m sorry, little brother.”

\---

The world is silent, caught on the precipice, an intake of breath before it can move forth. The surface of Earth is a graveyard, the bones of demons, angels and humans alike, resting for eternity above its rich soil. But darkness soon gives way to light, grass growing over charred lands, flowers blooming in the heart of destruction. In a forest, caught unchanged at the edge of Eden, a woman makes her way forth. She could be Eve, but She could also be Delilah or Ester or Helen. She could be Mary or Joan, and millions upon millions of others. She simply Is and will ever Be, even as the world will crash into nothingness. But for now, a victory has been reached and She must abide to it, hollow though it might be.

“You lied to him,” Her voice is sorrowed as She beholds the last of Her archangels, lying gently in the grass, face caught eternally in a grateful smile. “It was Heaven that won, not Hell.”

“I did not lie,” Lucifer turns, guise of the Adversary cast aside for the shape held during the time he lingered in Heaven, the shape of Gabriel’s brother. “He knew as well as I. Hell might very well had won. What use if Heaven’s victory is all his brothers are dead?”

“Not all. You remain,” God tries, although knowing Her words will not be enough. Such is the price of victory, a future without an Adversary, a world with no wrong.

“All of them, Yahweh. Of what use is darkness in a world without sin?” A sardonic smile spreads over Lucifer’s features. “We are eternal, the two of us. We shall Be when the worlds come crashing into the everlasting Dark and all we have built will cease to exist. We will Be all that remains at the End of All Time when your Heavens crumble to dust. But for now, my role is complete. There is no need to play a different charade, not when all of them are dead.”

The figure fades slowly, body dissolving into darkness, wisps bursting into the skies, to the far recesses of the Universe. He will return, when the Time comes, but for now, Heaven holds no need for darkness and evil. Heaven holds no place for the other Side.

\---

At the End of the World, alone, in the silence of an ancient forest, at the gates of a garden that started it all, God weeps for the fallen Children.

 

* * *

 

[1] Vlad the Impaler

[2] I’m going to point out the castle mentioned in this story is Poenari Castle, which was the actual castle Vlad the Impaler inhabited during his reign due to its strategic position.

[3] Ștefan cel Mare ( Stephen the Great ) voivode of Moldavia from 1457 to 1504


End file.
